World's Only Consulting Cat
by ZenaraTheDragon
Summary: Random fic I came up with when considering Sherlock's temperament.
1. Chapter 1

John yawned as he walked down the stairs for his morning coffee. Glancing at the couch, he stopped. Curled up on Sherlock's blue robe was a sleek black cat with a couple white patches.

"Sherlock," John called, looking back up the stairs.

"What?" Sherlock's voice answered, sounding slightly scratchy and much higher than usual.

"Since when do we have a cat?" John asked.

"We don't."

"Then why- where are you, anyways?"

"On the couch."

"...No you're not."

"Honestly, I think I know where I am."

"No, the cat's on the couch, but not... you..."

The cat's eyes opened and it sat up quickly.

"John," it- he- said, "What's going on?"

John sat down. Without a chair.

The cat looked down at his white-socked front paws, lifting one, then the other, in confusion.

"John," Sherlock said, "I'm a _cat_."

And he was. A black cat with a white splotch over his face and down his chest, leaving the black fur framing his face looking like his human hairstyle. His back paws and tail were tipped with dark gray.

"Sherlock," John said, "You're a _cat_."

"Yes, I think we've established that," Sherlock huffed.

"A _talking_ cat."

Sherlock glared at John with gray-green eyes. "_Will_ you stop being obvious, please?"

John nodded mutely, then shook his head. "You're a _cat_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He extended the talons of one paw. "Claws," he muttered. "Could be useful..." he turned and raked said claws down the back of the couch.

"Hey! Stop that!" John said. Sherlock gave him a _get-over-it_ look and continued. In his own time (thank you very much!) he turned away from the couch and leapt onto the table.

"Short little legs," he muttered. He leapt onto John's chair from the table, saying, "Jumping improved proportionally, in-context jumping height _much_ decreased," then dug his claws in and pulled himself up to the back of the chair, regarding John, who was still sitting on the kitchen floor, speechless.

"I'm going to need new transportation," Sherlock said. "Get up, John."

When John still sat there, Sherlock leapt down and dug his claws into John's ankle.

"Hey-ow!" John said, swatting at Sherlock.

"Get _up_, I said!" the cat repeated.

Grumbling, John stood up. Sherlock immediately launched himself upwards, climbing swiftly up John to sit on his shoulder.

"You've got claws, now, you know!" Sherlock's perch said, wincing in pain.

"I know. It'll be rather nice, I think, being able to punctuate an order with a claw to the leg," Sherlock mused. "Well, then, John, forward!" Sherlock thrust a paw in the desired direction.

"...Where is it you want me to go?" John asked unhappily.

"Detective inspector's office, where else? I've got people to pester. I'm beginning to get bored."

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock, depositing him, protesting, on the couch. "I'm getting dressed first. Entertain yourself 'till I'm done."


	2. Chapter 2

Once John could at least not freak out about Sherlock's unexplained transformation, they haded over to Lestrade's office. With a cat on his shoulder, John got some odd looks from passers-by, but he resolutely ignored them as Sherlock muttered deductions into his ear.

"Don't ask," he said as he entered the office, just before Sherlock yowled, "HAVE YOU GOT A CASE FOR ME YET?!"

All activity in the office stopped. John facepalmed, then reached up and wrangled the protesting cat from his shoulder.

"John. Is that...?" Lestrade asked, staring.

"Obviously," Sherlock grumped. "Really, stop staring."

"That's a _cat_!" Anderson said, grinning. "Hey, lemme pet him!"

Despite John's protests, Anderson reached over to Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he calmly reached out and sliced inch-long gashes into Anderson's hand.

"Dammit!" Anderson yelped

"Honestly, you idiot, why would you even try that? I've got claws!" Sherlock said.

"It really _is_ him," Lestrade said in amazement.

"But with claws," Anderson growled.

"Anderson, you don't have a very good death glare, you need to work on that," Sherlock said, smirking.

"What's going on? Whose cat is that?" Donovan asked, walking in.

"I'm my own cat," Sherlock said loftily.

"..." Donovan stared with her mouth open. "...Is that the Freak?"

"Yeah," Anderson said. "Look what he did to my hand."

"Enough self-pity, Anderson. You need help with a case, so which one? Oh, don't look at me like that, Lestrade, I know this office's combined intellects amount to about the same as a sea cucumber's, so, where's the case?" Sherlock asked.

"Well," Lestrade said, "I'm going to pretend everything's normal long enough for me to give you this." He picked up a file from his desk.

"I'll get that," John said. "I'm new functional body and personal cab, apparently."

Sherlock looked smug.

Leaning over John's shoulder, he looked quickly over the contents of the file.

"...Really?" he asked, looking up with an are-you-serious face.

"None of the forensic reports make sense," Anderson said. "There should be a pattern by now, if it's a serial killer."

Sherlock sighed. "Must I spell it out for you? Well, I suppose so- There are almost innumerable ways for someone to commit a murder. You can't expect every killing to be the same. But there is a pattern. You wouldn't expect these people to be connected, of course not. But, it's so obvious..." Sherlock shook his head. "Online dating. Look at these people- early fifties, divorced twice, mid-twenties, nerdy- people who have no romantic life. They were found near restaurants, weren't they? All of them? And they're all men, yes? Look them up in online dating profiles. See who they wanted to meet." Sherlock settled more comfortably on John's shoulder.

"...Well, then," Lestrade sighed. "There's that case probably solved. Donovan, get on the internet. Look up the victims."

Donovan nodded and walked away.

* * *

"Oops," Sherlock said insincerely, gazing at the stack of paper he'd relocated from Lestrade's desk to the floor.

"Sherlock, can't you find some other way to entertain yourself?" Lestrade asked tiredly. Unfortunately it was a slow day for cases, and now Sherlock was here.

"John, can't you take him home?" Lestrade asked desperately.

"You've seen the damage he can do with those claws." John held up his hands in surrender. "But I do have an idea..." John walked over and whispered something in Lestrade's ear, ignored by Sherlock.

"Yeah, in Conference Room 2, I think," Lestrade said. "In the first drawer of the filing cabinet in the corner."

John nodded and set off toward Conference Room 2.

"What? What's in the filing cabinet? Where is he going?" Sherlock asked rapid-fire.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing," Lestrade said innocently.

Sherock narrowed his eyes and, looking Lestrade in the eye, slowly and deliberately pushed the coffee mug from Lestrade's desk.

* * *

"I didn't find it," John said happily as he came back.

"No?" Lestrade asked.

John shook his head minutely.

"Find_ what_?" Sherlock asked, lounging dangerously in the walkway.

"Nothing," John said, discreetly pulling his had from his pocket, with a small silver tube. Pressing the 'on' button, John couldn't stop a mischievous smile from creeping onto his face as he watched a dot appear on the wall.

Sherlock froze. He stared at the little red mark in front of him, following its slight wavers with his eyes. Then it vanished as suddeny as it had appeared.

"John," Sherlock finally found his voice, "Did you see it?"

"See what?" John asked.

"That- that dot! It was right there!" Sherlock pawed at the spot it had been in.

"Um, Sherlock, there wasn't any dot."

"Yes there- look!" Sherlock froze again as the dot reappeared.

"I don't see it."

"How can you not?! It's _right there_!" Sherlock watched, mesmerized, at the dot as it started shifting positions on the floor. He pounced on it as it moved.

"Get back here- what _are _you? John! What is it?" Sherlock was so focused on the dot he didn't see John's grin.

"What's what?"

"What's he going on about?" Lestrade asked, walking over and trying to keep a straight face.

"I dunno. Some dot?"

"Yes! It's here, then it moves, and I _don't know what it is!_"

Lestrade barely kept from sniggering as he pulled out his smartphone.

"Well, what do you think it is?" John asked.

"I have no idea!" Sherlock sounded extremely frustrated by that fact.

John glanced at the laser pointer in his hand and grinned again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Wait." Sherlock stared into the space formerly occupied by the dot with a look of intense concentration. "I'm seeing color. Cats don't see color."

"What, you don't delete cat facts?" John grumbled.

"Of course I do John, I just haven't emptied my Recycle Bin for a while," Sherlock snapped. "Besides, cat facts are rather relevant now."

"Oh, yes, you have a mental recycle bin. Why don't you un-delete some facts about the solar system?"

"I keep deleting the fact that I have it," Sherlock admitted. "But that's not the point. I can't be entirely cat, I see color. Remember the laboratory at Baskerville?"

"The one with the giant dog? How could I forget?" John rolled his eyes.

"They were messing around with genetic engineering. Perhaps someone there gave me something... But what could cause..." Sherlock stared into space. "Shut up," he snapped across the room at Anderson. "And go lower the room's IQ somewhere else."

Anderson looked offended but complied, rubbing the claw marks on his hand thoughtfully.

* * *

_Calm_, Sherlock thought, _Enter your mind palace_.

His preliminary calming of analyzing everything in the room detached him from the present. He mentally placed word-notes on things as he analyzed every person, every desk.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and entered his mind-palace.

_Cat's body_. _Human mental capacity, human eyes_. Genetic manipulation?_- possibly_, virtual reality?_- unlikely; an extreme knowledge of personal relationships and personalities, plus great computer knowledge, would be necessary. _

Drugs? _Certainly not self-administered_. He'd be able to recall something like that.

Dreams? _Too real_. There had been no strange leaps, no sudden scenery changes.

Hallucinations? Not unless he was unconscious with trauma, dreaming this up- and again, it was too real.

Sherlock's tail twitched.

_Moriarty_.

He felt that the criminal spider was connected to this, somehow. Admittedly a more direct approach than was usually his style, but with a mind that twisted, this could have been brought about for a laugh.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He yawned, nonchalant.

Looking down, he saw that he was on Lestrade's desk.

"How did I get here?" he asked, puzzled.

"You didn't answer when we were talking to you, and you just kind of went limp when I took you off my shoulder," John explained.

"Mind palace," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Ah."

"One more thing, John."

"Hm? What's that?"

"When I was going through my recycle bin I rediscovered laser pointers."

"...Oh." John slipped the little silver tube back in his pocket.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock looked John in the eye.

"However. There is nothing we can do about my species right now, and I am STILL BORED! So, I am now- deleting- Laser pointers." His eyes unfocused for a moment. "What?" he asked, looking slightly amused at nothing.

"Er. If they don't have a case for you, why don't we go home? I've got, y'know, stuff to do," John suggested.

"Fine. Just let me slice Anderson to ribbons-" Sherlock protested with a squawk as John picked him up unceremoniously and carried him out of the office.

Everyone in the office looked relieved as Sherlock left.

"I'm glad that little demon's gone," Anderson said. "Did you see what he did to my hand?"

* * *

When they got back to the flat, John dropped Sherlock on the couch and went to make tea. There was silence for a few minutes.

"John. You realize this may be permanent."

John put down the mug he was holding and turned around. Sherlock was staring at him, somehow managing to wear the same expression he'd used as a human.

"I...I hadn't really considered the long-term," John admitted.

"So far, I don't see how I'm going to become human again," Sherlock said quietly. "People are going to ask all sorts of paranoid questions about my status as a person and animal rights and all that. You're going to have to help me fend them off. They won't want to listen to a cat."

John looked over at his flatmate. "No, they won't. Not at first. But you're still _you_! Still _brilliant_! I think they'll have to see that you're the same person, just... not quite human."

"Moriarty might 'convince' them otherwise."

John paused. "You think it's him, then."

"I can never rule out that possibility. He'd be the only one with the resources and connections to do this kind of thing. I've no idea how, for once- some kind of genetic manipulation or something equally complex, but I still think it's him."

"Jumping to such conclusions already, hmm?"

John and Sherlock turned towards the door. Sherlock hissed.

"Goodness, dear brother," Mycroft said, peering distastefully at the cat, "You've gotten yourself into quite a situation, haven't you?"

Sherlock jumped to the couch back and faced the wall.

"What happened, John?" Mycroft asked.

"I honestly have no idea. This morning, I woke up, came downstairs, and Sherlock was a cat."

"Just...a cat? No intruders in the night? No funny behavior over the past few days?"

John held up his hands. "Not as far as I know."

Mycroft turned his dear-brother-why-do-you-put-me-through-this-kind-of-thing glare towards Sherlock's back. "Any ideas?"

"I _had_ eleven."

"And now?"

"One, inconclusive."

"In other words...?"

Sherlock growled. "In other words,_ I. Don't. Know._"

* * *

A/N: Ah, chapter 4. Just so you know, this may be the last chapter for a bit while I figure out where this is going. I'm trying to figure out wether Moriarty is involved, or if it's magic, or if it's a cruel joke of Mycroft's. Reviews give me ideas!


	5. Chapter 5

"Mycroft, stop enjoying this so much," Sherlock growled.

"Please. I hardly enjoy the cat hair on my suit."

John rolled his eyes at the banter of the brothers and went to make tea.

"John!" Sherlock appealed to him for some issue he hadn't even heard.

"Nope. I'm not taking sides."

Mycroft stood up and joined John in the kitchen. "He merely wants to be let out."

"Why can't you do it, then? I'm making tea."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I have some pressing issues to attend to."

"Just let him out as you leave."

"...Sherlock wishes to leave immediately, while I was planning on staying slightly longer for the tea."

John sighed. "Fine."

Sherlock yowled incoherently from the living room.

"Shut up! I'm coming!" John yelled back.

* * *

Sherlock grumbled, digging his claws into Mycroft's umbrella.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gasped, disbelieving. Few things could make him lose his composure, but damage to his umbrella was one of them.

"How dare you?" he hissed at the cat, fists clenched in rage. John grabbed his tea and moved out of the line of Death Glare.

"Oh, please, Mycroft. It's not like you don't have fifty more at home."

"But that umbrella- _that one right there! _Is my absolute favorite!"

Sherlock smiled smugly. "Shouldn't have left it in my reach, then."

John had to intervene to keep from having to talk to a taxidermied cat like Sherlock talked to the skull.

* * *

As he ushered a furious Mycroft (plus clawed umbrella) out the door and held a squirming, insult-hurling cat under one arm, John realized how much he pitied the mother of the Holmes brothers.

"John, can you believe how he overreacted to that umbrella thing?" Sherlock asked, enjoying the entire thing far too much.

"Yes. You've ruined his favorite umbrella. I'd be upset if you ruined my favorite jumper, it's the same with your brother's umbrellas."

"You'd be upset if...?" Sherlock's eyes widened and his ears flattened to his head.

"Sherlock, you didn't!"

The cat twisted out of John's grasp and fled out the door, which had been left slightly open.

"Damn. My jumper..." John glared up the staircase to his room, as though the power of his glare could force the ripped threads back together. He stormed upstairs to inspect the damage.

It wasn't as bad as he'd thought. It was _worse._ John stared sadly around his room at the shredded remains of his very favorite sweater. He immediately ran downstairs and shut and bolted the door. Sherlock wouldn't vex him any more tonight, if he had to call animal control to be sure of it.

* * *

Sherlock sat outside the flat, silent. He'd known John would be upset, but the door was _locked._ John had never locked the door when he was outside before. Sherlock twitched his tail tip and readied his pleading kitten eyes.

* * *

A scratching on the door alerted John to Sherlock's presence.

"Go away, Sherlock," John yelled.

"...John?"

"Go _away_."

"John. I... I have something to say."

John glanced at the closed door. "Well, say it then."

"I... John, I'm sorry."

John got up and unlocked the door, staring down into wide green-gray eyes... And looking at a new (if slightly muddied) sweater.

"Sherlock, you got me a new jumper?"

"I did."

"Did you... Pay money for it?"

"Why would I? I'm a cat, everything I see is mine. Except the jumper, which is yours."

John laughed; he couldn't help it. "You stole a jumper."

"I suppose I did."

"That's going to be one hell of a police report. 'A talking cat stole a sweater'?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow (or the cat equivalent of such) and walking inside, trailing the new sweater. "Am I forgiven?"

"Not quite. But you're not locked out anymore." John shut the door after the cat.

"Thank you."

"This is actually a nice jumper," John commented, holding up Sherlock's gift. "It just needs to be washed."

Sherlock's ear twitched. "Yes, well. Height was an issue."

* * *

A/N: Er. Sweaters and umbrellas. This may recur!

(Does this note show up half-transparent? I think I accidentally hit something and now I have no idea how to fix it.)


End file.
